


i'd take every blow without armor

by uptillthree



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nicaise (Captive Prince) Lives, Victim-blaming, like... lots of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: “If I had come to you with unfounded accusations,” Laurent says carefully, “against such a powerful man, and been proven wrong, I would have been disgraced, and Uncle would have tried to kill me, as well as you.”This feels, Auguste thinks, more exhausting than war. More terrible than holding the front line for hours and hours, until the sun sank; more dizzying than Damianos’ sword in his side; more excruciating than the sight of Papa, pale and still.(After their uncle is executed, Laurent is questioned.)
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 114





	i'd take every blow without armor

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve come to accept that i simply am not good at handling longfics/multichaps bc i run out of motivation in about a week <3 so instead i’ll just publish bits that could probably be made into longfic but that i just want to write without the pressure of writing longfic! i’m sorry in advance and please bear with me !!
> 
> anyway. have some laurent’s trial for suspected treason and imperfect brother auguste ! again mind the tags and stay safe!

“Since when have you known?” Auguste asks, his voice carrying through the throne room.

Laurent’s eyes are expressionless, steady on his. He doesn’t seem to have an ounce of shame. Auguste thinks, if he breathes too deeply, that his heart will splinter, become a screaming, angry creature in his ribcage. 

“That Uncle fucks children,” Laurent asks blithely, “or that he wanted your throne?”

Auguste has never, in his life, expected this, that Laurent might turn every ounce of his wit, his sharpness on _him._ That _Laurent_ would turn against him. His brother. The insouciant, irreverent grace that Auguste had so often found so funny. “Both.” His voice comes out in a snap. “Answer the question, Laurent.”

“I suspected,” Laurent says, “when he began going out into the city often. To see the people, he said. I knew that Uncle has never cared for _the people._ He also became… more quiet, in public. He would arrange fewer parties and spend more time in his own quarters. I thought—”

“And why did you not come forward with your suspicions?” Herode, Auguste’s oldest Councilor, asks. Laurent’s jaw twitches.

“Because they were only suspicions,” Laurent says. There is a furrow in his brow now, the first slip in his composure. Laurent hates being interrupted more than anything. “I had no proof, and he was your right hand—”

“No,” Auguste says. “You were.”

Laurent blinks at that, which is barely a tell, but Auguste has known his brother for eighteen years. He sees how still he becomes, like he is holding in his breath. “If I had come to you with unfounded accusations,” Laurent says carefully, “against such a powerful man, and been proven wrong, I would have been disgraced, and Uncle would have tried to kill me, as well as you.”

This feels, Auguste thinks, more exhausting than war. More terrible than holding the front line for hours and hours, until the sun sank; more dizzying than Damianos’ sword in his side; more excruciating than the sight of Papa, pale and still.

“So you chose your own safety, over the Crown,” Berenger says.

Laurent turns his head to look him full in the face. Berenger and Laurent are close friends, have been since childhood, Auguste remembers. “I chose to keep myself in a position where I could continue to protect my brother.”

“That is not quite what happened in the end,” Mathe points out. _No,_ Auguste thinks. Instead nine of his men were killed, Laurent had disposed of seven mercenaries by himself, and that boy… 

Laurent’s fists clench at that, making the iron clang, an ugly sound. He doesn’t say anything.

“The mercenaries,” Auguste says, forcing the words out. “Did you not think of getting a confession out of them? Or searching their homes? If you were so sure that—”

“Of course I did,” Laurent says tightly. “That was all I meant to do, the first time. But none of them would confess. I’d learned of their assignment only through word of mouth. That had been ensured. And any letter that had been sent to them must be ashes, because I couldn’t find any.” 

Auguste rubs his forehead with his fingers for a moment, allowing himself the lapse. 

“And what of the boy?” says Audin. “You were seen speaking with Nicaise more than once— several times. What were you speaking of?”

Here, for the first time, Laurent looks haunted with guilt. “I was trying to convince Nicaise to… leave him. To come under my protection, instead.”

“You knew of what he was doing to the boy?” Mathe says, and the thought of it is enough to make Auguste’s stomach lurch.

“No,” Laurent says, too quickly. “I heavily suspected, from… the way he… acted with him, but—” 

“Then you fully knew the truth of the situation, and yet you allowed this to go on for weeks, at the least,” says Herode. When Herode looked at you with disappointment, Auguste thinks, it was worse than condemnation. 

“I was without proof,” Laurent repeats. “I knew Nicaise would never admit to it, and I would not force him to. I knew Nicaise likely knew more of his treachery than anyone, but I also knew that he would not assist me, that his loyalty was to him.”

Little Nicaise, who is eleven, had had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, from this same chamber on the day Uncle was beheaded. He had remained in his rooms since, though Auguste has made certain Paschal is caring for him.

Herode nods, as though Laurent’s words make perfect sense, but Jeurre says, “You would put the security of some street rat before ensuring that there is no treachery in the King’s court?”

Laurent inhales deeply, like he is buying time so that his anger does not show in his voice. “I was trying to do both in a way that harmed the least people.” 

“You have achieved the opposite!” Jeurre says sharply. Auguste has to stop himself from snapping back. 

“The assassin’s letter to your uncle,” Berenger says. “How did you acquire it?”

“Nicaise mentioned it to me,” Laurent says. His voice is entirely toneless, now. “He told me of the hidden compartment in my uncle’s quarters, in exchange for enough coin to buy out his contract. It was a bet between us; he didn’t think it was serious. He looked terrified when I paid him.”

“When was this?”

“The day of the attack.” There’s a note of regret there. “I believe my uncle kept the letter as insurance. I stole the letter while my uncle was hunting and came to Auguste’s quarters immediately, but the assassin was already there.” After the attack, with the floor still slick with blood and the assassin gasping their uncle’s name, Laurent had pulled out the letter.

“He has no guards outside his chambers? You were able to slip in and take the letter so easily?”

“I imagine he doesn’t like the possibility of a guard being able to slip into his own quarters, considering what they might find.”

“That,” says Mathe, “is a fair amount of coincidences.”

Auguste sees the apple of Laurent’s throat bobbing as he swallows. “It is what happened.” 

“Were his chambers simply unlocked that day?” Audin asks.

Slowly, Laurent’s cheeks turn a shameful red. Just as Audin is about to repeat the question, he answers, “I have learned to pick locks.”

Auguste clenches his teeth, though he knows it is a nonsensical reaction. Lock-picking is a skill like any other— but it’s a dishonorable one, underhanded. Laurent knows it; the Council knows it. With a shock, he realizes that the terrible, familiar weight sitting in his lungs is _grief,_ painful and hated, mourning as though he has already lost his brother. He pushes it down.

“If you had come to me when you first found evidence,” Auguste says, desperately wanting Laurent to understand, “even intangible evidence, this would have been over easily. Other men would not have had to die. No children would have been harmed. How long have you suspected all this? No— how long have you been _certain?”_

Laurent meets his eyes, and Auguste knows that this will be the truth: “When I killed the second mercenary. When he brought Nicaise to the palace as his ward.”

Auguste closes his eyes. The Council continues to speak around them. 

“To be certain that long… and yet to keep it secret…”

“...as complicit as the one who did the crime in the first place…”

“I—”

Auguste opens his eyes. Laurent is staring straight at him still, the corners of his mouth drawn downwards. He looks, to Auguste’s eyes, so _young._

“I did not know,” he says quietly, “if you would believe me.”

Auguste blinks slowly. 

The world tilts on its head. The throne room heats, is set aflame. The palace crumbles and the sky falls, a crushing weight. Auguste begins to see it then, the full truth; the world in the way Laurent must see it, like fog clearing to reveal a cliff, the frightening, deadly fall.

Auguste stands, sways. He can’t quite keep his breathing even, and he knows Laurent sees it. “Leave us,” Auguste says then. His Council shifts in surprise, hesitating. “I wish to speak with my brother privately.”

“Your Majesty,” Mathe starts, “he may be a threat to—”

 _You have to be joking,_ Auguste almost says. Laurent is quiet and unarmed, his wrists shackled to the stand. Auguste knows that he always has a dagger in his boot and probably more elsewhere, and he also knows every one of his weaknesses in a fight. “Leave us,” he repeats, and barely sees the Council and the guards leave them. 

Laurent may as well have been a statue, staring vacantly in front of him. 

“Laurent,” Auguste whispers. He steps off the dais, stumbling. He sees it now, the enormity of his failure, every grievous misstep. “Tell me what you mean by that.”

“I don’t—” 

He knows, then, when Laurent falters. “He hurt you,” Auguste says, and it is worse than grief, worse than death. He thinks: Marlas meant my absence. Kingship meant my lack of time for you. All my promises mean less than dust. Laurent says nothing, only bows his head. “He hurt you.” It is not a question.

“Auguste, I’m sorry,” Laurent whispers.

“Why are you— what on _earth_ are you—” 

“I thought… I thought, still, that he was invincible. Like I could not possibly beat him.” Auguste remembers Laurent’s face at the execution then: deathly pale and gripping the arms of his chair so tightly Auguste feared they’d break. Auguste had thought, then, that perhaps he was grieving. Perhaps he had not wanted to see his uncle dead. Perhaps, even, he feared he was next. 

_I thought he was invincible._

He cannot bring himself to ask when, or how, or what; these will come later. He can’t bring himself to speak at all, and so Laurent, fearless, stupid Laurent, beats him again.

“I should have trusted you,” Laurent says. “But I was—I—”

Auguste walks across the room and wraps his arms around him. Laurent quiets. “Hush.” He does not know which one of them falls apart first. “My brother,” he says, face crumpled into Laurent’s hair, fingers clutching at his back. His jacket will wrinkle. “My brother. _Laurent.”_

“The Council will think you’ve betrayed your own crown,” Laurent says, almost motionless, except that his chin tips onto Auguste’s shoulder and his cheeks are wet. It reminds him of when Laurent was a child, falling asleep in his arms to Auguste’s stupid toneless singing.

‘Then they are fools,” Auguste whispers, gasping so that he does not sob. _I will fix it,_ he wants to say. _I will fix it._ “For I am King, and my word is Law, and _you will be pardoned when I say so.”_

“It doesn’t work that way,” Laurent says, but for all that he doesn’t pull away.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated <3
> 
> every once in a blue moon i post some laurent art and general capri brainrot on[ twitter ](https://twitter.com/julesdap)


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